


To Thaw

by LazyAdmiral



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Your Heart Shall Burn, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29246271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyAdmiral/pseuds/LazyAdmiral
Summary: They’ve been marching for two days and nights when she wakes up gasping, unable to breathe.-Marianne Cadash survives the fall of Haven, and lives with the aftermath. Blackwall understands.
Relationships: Blackwall/Female Cadash (Dragon Age), Blackwall/Female Inquisitor
Kudos: 10





	To Thaw

They’ve been marching for two days and nights when she wakes up gasping, unable to breathe.

The dreams are the same, vivid and frighteningly clear as she hears the roar of the thundering mountainside behind her, feels the rush of frigid air against her face as she runs, blinded by fear. Except now, she doesn’t have the good fortune to stumble across the poorly-secured mineshaft running under the village, doesn’t fall through the flimsy wood into safety and survival. No, in her dreams, the ground never opens up beneath her, and her legs just aren’t fast enough to beat the on-coming snow and debris and it roars louder and louder, ringing in her ears until it swallows her whole and she’s falling and trapped and _ancestors,_ _she can’t breathe_ –

It takes a few minutes, curled up in her bedroll, shaking and desperately sucking in gulps of air, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to ground herself – _it’s not real, it’s not real, she’s safe, they’re all safe_. It’s been hard, getting used to these sudden strange visions that haunt her when she sleeps, ghosts drawn by the mark on her hand, but no matter how much she reminds herself afterwards that it’s all an illusion, somehow once she’s closed her eyes, the fear and dread override everything.

Part of her wants to ask Solas if he has any advice when the fourth night sees her waking hours before dawn, only a few minutes of restful sleep stolen before the dreams return and already she starts to approach the evening with dread. When the scouts report a structure another day’s walk to the north, she sets the idea aside – once they’re at Skyhold, she thinks, things will get better. She won’t be sleeping against a frozen bedroll on a windy mountainside, listening to Sera’s snoring for a start.

They arrive and begin to rebuild, and for a while, she’s right. The restoration work is gruelling, and even after they name her Inquisitor, she can’t stand to sit back and let others do the heavy lifting. She rises as dawn peeks over the mountaintops and crawls into her tent long after it’s gone down, body aching and heavy, mind blissfully empty of all but the need to rest.

They give her a room, eventually; too large and certainly a little ostentatious, given they have buildings that still have holes in the roofs and walls. There’s a fireplace and a desk and wooden looking couch, and in the centre of it all, an enormous bed in the Orlesian style, extravagant and expansive with a thick, plush mattress and cosy woollen blankets.

The first night, she wakes up near screaming, scrambling to free herself from the mess of blankets and cushions to reach fresh air. After that, she barely uses it.

She catches naps when she can, fits and starts of sleep throughout the day during the brief moments no one needs her opinion on anything. She pretends she doesn’t notice the worried looks and exchanged glances when those she works closest with think she isn’t looking. Josie’s taken to asking the kitchens to send up strong Antivan coffee with her breakfast tray. Cullen asks how she’s coping in that ham-fisted, to-the-point Fereldan way she both appreciates and despises, and he accepts whatever lie she offers without argument. Leliana watches, because it’s what she does, and she suspects those moments when messengers run a little later than planned or meetings are suddenly rearranged right at the point where she most needs a moment of quiet are not mere coincidences.

As for the others… She doesn’t comment when a second, plush-looking chair suddenly makes a home in Dorian’s self-claimed reading nook. Bull tops up her drinks when he thinks she’s not looking and lets Varric tucks her away in a quiet corner when she falls into a drunken stupor. Sera leaves overstuffed cushions and soft blankets on her chair, at the War Table, in the tavern. Cassandra drags her out for early morning walks or sparring when the snow is too heavy to wander far. Vivienne sends for all manner of sweet-smelling creams and lotions designed to relax and soothe the mind, while Solas coaxes with soft-spoken stories of the glimmering Fade.

Cole is the only one who seems to know the cause of the shadows under her eyes, and he hovers near her, asking her to let him help. She refuses, always. He nods, accepting as if he knew the answer all along, as if he knows why. If he can do what she thinks he can, he probably does.

And then there’s Blackwall.

She sees little of him since their conversation on the parapets, apart from the missions she’s taken him out on. It’s still strange, this tense thing of desire and desperation that hasn’t yet come to bloom, and she can’t bring herself to confront it, not yet. She doubts he’s even noticed her reticence – he made his apologies back on the Storm Coast, and that should, after all, be the end of it. Her tired, torn little heart doesn’t have room in it for another knife wound, and with her nights now spent staring out her balcony window, she doesn’t have the strength for more than what the Inquisition needs of her.

She’s wandering the parapets, absently nodding to the night watch as she now does on nights like these. She comes out here when her skin seems to itch and the chill in her bones won’t quite ease no matter how many logs she throws on the fire. The wind is cold too, but it numbs rather than aches and she prefers the frigid clean of it, letting it blow around and through her, chasing out shadows and cobwebs until she can bring herself to face that monstrosity of a bed.

He catches her on her third circuit, just as she’s turning towards the eastern side looking down over the gardens.

“You can’t keep this up, my lady,” he says, after looking at her silently for a long moment across the short distance between them. The walls are more sheltered here, and the wind doesn’t roar in her ears the same, making the quiet seem heavier.

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t know how to answer. This isn’t gentle hints and worried glances, not even Cullen’s straightforward questioning or Cole’s futile offers, and she doesn’t know what lie to tell.

He seems to know, maybe knows the restlessness and dread that creaks through her bones in a way the others don’t. _I don’t deserve to be here._ He comes closer, until there’s barely a foot between them, his steady frame looming over her and it feels too far and too close all at once. She can feel the warmth coming off of him from here, like the fire magic that Dorian wields, and it’s both welcome and painful, anathema to the frozen core of her.

If he touched her, if she let him thaw her through, would there be anything left? Or would she melt away?

“You don’t–” he starts, biting off as he seems to struggle with what he wants to say. He stares off into the mountains for a second, and she watches his profile, stern and commanding in the moonlight. She waits. The muscle in his cheek twitches once, twice beneath the black and grey beard, and when he speaks, it is little above a murmur, a soft rumble in the quiet dark.

“I’ve watched too many good people be eaten alive by things they should never have had to carry.” He turns and catches her gaze with eyes that are pale and clear in the dim light. “I know I have no right to ask, but please,” his voice dips, just a moment, a ragged, jutting edge, “do not expect me to stand by and watch the same happen to you.”

The wind picks up then, and it feels like needles across her skin, like she’s being flayed open with only words. It takes a moment to realise she’s shivering, her jaw tight with it.

Blackwall swears, a rough, guttural sound, and reaches for her hands at her sides. A gasp leaves her lips, it’s almost agonising and as she looks down at her brittle, scarred hands engulfed in his gloved ones, she half expects to see blisters forming where they touch. But no burns form, not even as he rubs her hands between his, urging some life back into them with pressure and friction.

Another gasping breath leaves her. Then another. And her eyes feel hot and stinging and something scalding drips down onto their shared hands and her throat aches and she feels something hard and cold rising in her chest–

–and then her world is soft wool, warm and dark as a summer night, and the arms around her are firm enough to hold her up, to let her loosen the tight bar of her shoulders and let go of the invisible weight for a while. She’s still gasping, still crying because now she’s started she can’t seem to stop, but the embrace doesn’t falter, doesn’t pull away. There’s a hand in her hair, smoothing the wild strands, and there are lips at her ear and a voice, steady and familiar and safe.

“Hush. It’s alright. I have you.”

She’s not sure how long they stand there, an island of warmth and relief in the winter cold. She knows when she pulls back, the wind sneaks in to cool the wet tracks against her face, and she grimaces in shame at her weakness. There’s an apology for the pathetic display already on her lips when Blackwall’s hands move to her face, thumbs gently wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“Thank you.” The words are a breath between them, and it almost feels sacrilegious to scoff at it.

“For what, crying all over your coat?” Even to her own ears, the hoarse words lack any bite. Blackwall only smiles that soft, half-smile she sees so rarely, the one that crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Will you rest tonight?” he asks instead of answering.

She thinks back to that enormous monstrosity waiting back in her rooms and can’t suppress a shudder. Blackwall holds her a little closer.

“Not in _that_ bed,” she mutters, letting her head fall back against his chest, now conscious of the weariness dragging on her like a weight. “Could try the couch, I suppose.”

Blackwall snorts at that. “I’ve seen that couch. I’m not sure it’s even meant for _sitting_ , let alone sleeping.”

“It _is_ Orlesian,” she replies with a quiet chuckle of her own. Her eyelids slip closed and she breathes deeply, the faint scent of straw and wood filling her senses.

“I suppose I can offer mine in that case, such as it is,” he says after a moment, only for her to feel his body stiffen as soon as the words are out. “I mean – not to imply… That didn’t _really_ come out how I meant.”

She’s shaking again but this time it’s laughter bubbling in her throat. She doesn’t look up but she can just imagine the slight tinge of pink across his weathered cheeks, the half-hearted frown on his brow as he gives her a chastising shake.

“Menace,” he mutters, too much warmth in the tone for her to feel any insult by it.

“Says the man trying to talk me into his bed.”

His groan is well worth looking up from her cosy woollen sanctuary, his expression as he meets her gaze long-suffering and amused with, yes, the barest hint of hunger underneath.

The last few weeks of keeping their distance and pretending not to see that same warmth whenever he looks at her seem to melt away as she stares up at him, the laughter of the moment drawing back like the tide to reveal something else hidden beneath. Tentative, as if waiting for her to pull back or push him away, he leans down until their foreheads meet. His features are blurred this close, and yet she can’t seem to look away, can’t do anything but lean into him until it feels like the world has narrowed down to where they touch, and the scant space of breath and heat left between them.

In the end, it doesn’t matter which of them moves first. Their lips meet with a sense of inevitability, like the sun kissing the horizon, certain and unflinching, and they part the same way.

Blackwall makes a soft sort of sound, equal parts hungry and wounded, and she grasps the soft fabric of his coat a little tighter.

She lifts a hand to his bearded cheek, warmth now curling through her. The nightmares will come back, of course – she’s not daft enough to think a surprise romantic rendezvous is enough to wipe away the lingering horror of that night from her soul or the gut-deep guilt that hangs over her. But right now, she feels heavy and warm and safe, and it’s enough.

It’s _more_ than enough.

“I think I might take you up on that offer of a bed for the night,” she says. “To sleep, of course.”

“Of course,” he repeats, and there’s a smirk on his lips she can’t help but lean up to kiss away.

“And you’ll stay?”

Her question is quieter still, a little more hesitant. His expression softens.

“Of course.”

It’s enough to draw a smile to her face, small but genuine.

“Then take me to bed, Ser Blackwall.”

And he does.


End file.
